come Saturday night) is dwindling as rapidly as its moral fibre. The Disposables provided a veritable oasis ofintegrity and good taste. Their dynamic. bilious rendition of‘California Uber Alles‘ on last week‘s barrel-scraping edition of The Word and Michael Franti‘s measured but heartfelt anti-homophobic gesture spoke volumes in a climate reeking of cesspit-for-brains ignorance.

Cut to a congested Glasgow club where an army of social zealots alternately make like sardines at the Festival fireworks and Zebedec on steroids. fists clenched at their sides. spirits — if not T-shirts — undampencd by the tropical humidity. This is the audience the Disposables deserve. though perhaps not the one they need. On The Word. their gospel had been a chance to net fresh minds. In The Tunnel. their tracts have long since been disseminated and digested.

Putting context toone side. it‘s worth noting that. although The Disposables are primarily about message. they are also a phenomenal live act. communicating precisely what they‘re about (peace. justice for minorities. racial harmony- it seems so obvious written down. so why isn‘t it happening?) with equal parts dignity and verve.

Throughout. Michael Franti is the gentle giant with the clamouring heart. a social sponge who chews over the early editions when others would be lassooing groupies. This man radiated intelligence. His diminutive partner. Rono Tse. is Mr C minus the inches and the irritation. a coil ofkinetic vigour who reiterates Franti‘s manifesto with coarse abbreviation while the rest of the band assemble the musical vertebrae. A selfless display. yet in its distinction inadvertantly

; self-promoting. (Fiona

‘ Shepherd)

mm- JAMES

Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, 13 Dec. James live — a sedentary experience? Surely not, except at that inevitable encore? But, yep, this is James—An Acoustic Performance. A chance to loll in the artsy elegance of the Concert Hall, an indie-kids’ away-day. A chance to sit and savour the arcane intricacies that are woven through James’ songs; the fiddly bits that are, often as not, subsumed beneath a bulldozing sound and the all-embracing nervous tic that is the stage-performance of Tim Booth. James are art-folk-rockers, inhabitants of downtown lofts, habituees of beatnik coffee shops, aficionados of the song-as-adrenaIised-poetry. They are Dylan’s more forthright wee brother, Cohen’s less claustrophobic progeny, and-say it loud, say it proud! - bugger

. all like Kerr. If James ever were a

‘stadium band’ — and methinks aspirational production and slyly epic songs do not, necessarily, a bad band make —tonight we get the kit-form version: shoved together and liable to fall apart at any moment.

Because James are busking, trusting their wits rather than their hits. Touring with Uncle Neil Young, apparently, put them on this acoustic trip and as it should be, this offers perfunctory, unhassled, good vibes. ‘Ring The Bells’ and ‘Sit Down’ wrong-footthe baggy brigade, James refusing to bow to the headlong rush of the usual

i Tim’s weird yodel, the simplistic

songs get the bends, so rapid is their ascent and descent. Then there’s Tim,

1 i

versions and instead putting their electric guitars on a short leash and lilleting out every fourth beat.

Key components from their dim and distant ’Hymn From A Village’ are thus revived. The arhythmic stroppiness,

sparseness. These also underpin other oldies ‘Johnny Yen’ and ‘Chain Mail’, their stop-start madness threatening to go OTT as James go AWOL and the

James’ very own Tasmanian devil, just like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. Like a washing machine taking an eppy, he bucks and jerks, the most gripping part of the performance. For the Acoustic James was more clever illumination than total gratification, stripping away the now-de rigueur bigness, and promoting the cause of James’ still-thriving, ever-resilient contrary pop instincts. (Craig McLean)

um- THE POGUES/PELE

Barrowland, Glasgow, 6 Dec. As is its wont around this time every year, The Barrowland is packed to the rafters with more Tims than a public-school graduate roll, and the lager- and vomit-soaked floor shakes to the collective bellowing of those football anthems that all seem to go ’woh-oh-oh-oh’ for several stanzas. And the Pogues aren’t even on for another hour.

In the circumstances, Pele are

46 The List 18Deﬁee-nTber anuary 1993 i _

: enthralling. Lyrics get lost in the mass

and subtleties eschewed in favour of down-the-line fiddle-driven shiny

of bewied-up wearers of the green,

happy numbers with a nostalgia- inducing fondness for traditions like verse-chorus-verse-chorus-middle-

bit-chorus-end. Reference points

touched en route include the Black Country brashness of PWEI/T he Wonder Stuff, but more particularly Dexy’s Midnight Runners round about

23 May 1982. This is a Good Thing.

j From Grace With God’ and, my God, 7 they have. It’s a rather cute irony that

. ' 3 ' to the man’sinabilityto stand up has

, new material that resembles outtakes

The Pogues open with ‘If 1 Should Fall

- the departure of Shane McGowan due

left the remainder of The Pogues as a nondescript pub-rock band. A substantial part of the set is devoted to

i from a Lurkers bootleg, and the whole

, affair smacks oftime-servers reluctant

3 to abandon their gravy train, even after

the driver has slumped over the wheel. The trouble is that Spider Stacy can’t

sing. Shane couldn’t sing either, but at

least his maudlin slur had a certain

battered charm. Spider makes like a

South London lager Iout whom nobody

can prise off the all-night karaoke, an

impression reinforced by the fact that

5 he has to read all the lyrics off sheets of

paper. The serious ones, Terry Woods

' and Phil Chevron, are wheeled forward '

i to drone their meaningful dirges and

the green hordes sway. In fact, they

g sway all the way down Argyle St,

’ dropping occasionally into the gutter to

[be swept away by the rain. (Tom

3 7 BOOK now

Concerts listed are those at majorvenues, for which tickets are on public sale at time of going to press.